


Tailoring

by Petronia



Series: Hannibal stories [11]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Clothing Kink, Come Marking, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: His tie hung loose, the ends no longer tucked in. Will ran it through his fingers, examining the grenadine’s nubbly texture. Then gave it a sharp tug, not very hard.“I like the colour,” he said. “It suits you.”Hannibal said nothing. Will held him, as if on a leash.





	Tailoring

Will found his own tailor, and he wouldn’t let himself be accompanied.

“You’re wary of my influence,” Hannibal said. “You instinctively resist it.” Will refused to wear a tie now, irrespective of occasion, drily citing  _ lack of white-collar employment. _ Did he imagine Hannibal would wrestle him into a paisley waistcoat?

A double-breasted blazer, perhaps, that could go over a turtleneck, or one of Will’s inevitable chambray shirts. Well-structured, vented, not too wide in the lapels. Will could be persuaded by almost anything, under the guise of functionality. But he would balk at  _ double-breasted, _ left to his own devices. 

“Are you sulking?” Will said. He lifted his hand, as if to take hold of Hannibal’s lapel, then seemed to recognize the absurdity of the gesture. “You didn’t even tell me when you had this made. That wasn’t my business, was it?”

“Wasn’t it?” Hannibal said.

His suit was bespoke, three piece, a cream-coloured Loro Piana cashmere. He was glad to own its like again – and the fine pin-striped shirt; and the silver-gold knots of his cuff links; and the blue grenadine silk tie, the nostalgic, shifting colourway of a certain someone’s eyes in stormy weather. The local handiwork was not on par with a Liverano, but then what was? All of it was a pleasure to look at, to touch, and he had not been thinking of his own. 

But Will was suspicious of pleasure. 

Will’s gaze swept up to his. His lips twitched, and Hannibal knew himself to be transparent. 

“Not in the execution, no,” Will said. His fingers did skim down Hannibal’s lapel, then, lingering at the artful fold of his pocket square. “You don’t want me to see the stitches. It’s the whole suit or nothing at all.”

“And you take a perverse joy in deconstructing the image I present you,” said Hannibal.

“Interesting choice of words, Doctor,” said Will. “Whereas you’re devoted to the process of my  _ becoming, _ not the result. Even in this.”

“Another quid pro quo?” said Hannibal. 

Will scoffed, softly. His hand hovered another moment, then decisively undid the top button of Hannibal’s jacket, such that it hung loose. 

“Don’t take it off yet,” he said.

He had noted, perhaps, some incipient movement on Hannibal’s part. 

Hannibal held himself still, except for breathing, of which he was unusually conscious. 

Will moved onto his waistcoat. He unfastened each button carefully, and seemed to pay attention to the detailing. 

The buttonholes were hand-stitched and reinforced in heavyweight silk twist, dyed the same cream colour as the wool, beautiful and sturdy. A bespoke suit or shirt couldn’t be torn open; not without doing irreparable violence to the fabric. Hannibal did not think Will would do that, once he’d taken a good look at the craftsmanship involved. It was respect for another’s skill and labour, and had nothing to do with what Hannibal might want. 

His tie hung loose, the ends no longer tucked in. Will ran it through his fingers, examining the grenadine’s nubbly texture. Then gave it a sharp tug, not very hard.

“I like the colour,” he said. “It suits you.” 

Hannibal said nothing. Will held him, as if on a leash.

“Come upstairs,” Will said.

 

***

 

Upstairs, Will unmade the knot of his tie, loop by loop, fingers brushing warmly against Hannibal’s throat. The double Windsor gave him no trouble.

“There,” he said. “Now the jacket can go, I think. Not on the floor – not very like you, Doctor Lecter.”

He took it from Hannibal’s hands, gently, and laid it over the back of a chair. Then the waistcoat, and the tie.

In another context Hannibal would have watched Will’s actions as himself – conscious and centred in himself, amused, aware – alight with curiosity at what would come next. But at times Will could and would strip away the requisite layers of him, setting them aside like the discarded clothing. What remained was unprotected: lesser, or more essential… 

He let it happen. With a touch Will directed him to sit, then lie back on their bed. His gaze raked over Hannibal, assessing. It raised the fine hairs over Hannibal’s entire body.

“I’ve never done this,” Will said. He wasn’t flushed, but his scent was warming, a heat-map bloom of intrigue. “You always undress yourself.”

“I know,” Hannibal said. 

In their shared past he had had occasion to undress and dress Will, like a doll or a child, in order to impose images of his choosing. He didn’t call attention to the fact: they both remembered it. 

“A little more,” Will said, and reached for the loop of Hannibal’s belt.

He didn’t touch, although Hannibal’s reaction to his ministrations was becoming evident. The belt was loosened, the trousers unbuttoned. Will moved to the foot of the bed in order to slip off Hannibal’s shoes, his free hand wrapping around each ankle in turn, for leverage.

“I knew men who wore these when I was a kid,” he murmured. He pushed Hannibal’s trouser leg up, grazing his calf with his fingers. “Good ol’ boys, emphasis on the  _ old. _ Those weren’t colour-matched, though.”

“They’re functional,” Hannibal said.

“Are they? I guess it ruins the look if your socks fall down.” Will slid two fingers under and around the band of the sock garter, as if testing it for stretch. Hannibal felt but couldn’t see it happening – only Will’s expression: the intensity of his gaze. He turned his face away into the pillow.

“It’s not for consumption, is it?” Will said. “The little effort, here and there… They appreciate the result, and you appreciate their good taste. But you won’t show them your work.”

“There is no _them,_ ” Hannibal said.

Will made a humming sound, an audible smile. His hand moved over Hannibal’s knee, then further up his thigh. Then paused, encountering.

Hannibal wet his lips.

“You can look,” he said. “If you like.”

Will exhaled, and moved. Not to unclothe, but to cover Hannibal with his entire body. He propped himself up on an elbow and pressed an open-mouthed kiss – a jolt of intimate sensation – over the pulse in Hannibal’s throat. At the same time he shoved his other hand down the back of Hannibal’s trousers, unerringly and without finesse. Hannibal caught at him helplessly, by the waist, pulling him closer still. 

“Are  _ these _ functional too?” Will said. Hannibal felt him finger the clips and straps of the shirt stays, blindly tracing them downward to the band that held them attached, around Hannibal’s upper thigh. “You don’t need them – not with a nice bespoke shirt – do you?”

“They’re for you,” Hannibal said. “Is that what you would like me to say?”

Will made a soft puff of laughter, against Hannibal’s ear. He smelled of desire. Hannibal had wanted him always, it seemed, and the want had meant so little to their games: Will had never reciprocated, nor even taken advantage in his seductions, though surely – surely – he had known.

It was still strange, to be wanted in return. For the gift not only to be accepted, but demanded. If Hannibal were other than he was, he would be afraid of the drug’s urgency: as if this gratification destroyed all hungers but its own source.

“Let me see you, then,” Will said.

 

***

 

He knelt over Will, knees to either side of Will’s thighs. Mostly nude, now, except for dress shirt and briefs, and the redundant stays and garters that whispered of restraint. Will still hadn’t moved to undress himself, but he had unbuttoned Hannibal’s shirt all of the way, and was scrupulously unfastening his cuff links.

“Wouldn’t want to lose these,” he said. 

He set them aside on the bedside table, and took hold of Hannibal’s wrists, drawing his thumbs up the fading lines paralleling each vein. As if he hadn’t meant the cuff links at all. Of the scars Will had inflicted by proxy, Hannibal suspected these remained Will’s favourites. 

Perhaps Will would take a blade to Hannibal’s flesh firsthand, one day. Not for revenge, but out of the same greed Hannibal felt.

He bent to kiss Will, lingering and wet. Once their lips parted he murmured, “Do you want my mouth?”

Will nodded. His eyes were shadowy water, fast-moving. “Do it so I can watch,” he said.

Hannibal kissed him again, then let himself slide off the side of the bed and to his knees.

Will was already fully erect. He sighed when Hannibal freed him from his trousers and boxers, and again when Hannibal leant in to wet the glans with a preliminary swirl of his tongue. Hannibal dipped his head further, beginning to suck, and Will’s hand came around to cradle his nape and keep him in place.

Hannibal kept his gaze upturned, watching Will’s eyes flicker over him, taking in the picture he presented. Taking it apart.

“No way to get your underwear off all the way,” he said. “Not without unfastening those stays. Can you push them down, though? Don’t stop what you’re doing.”

Hannibal had a hand free, and he used it to skim his briefs down, enough to free his cock to Will’s view. He spread his knees open and gave himself a couple of strokes, mostly dry. The pleasure was not in his own touch, but in the wanton exposure – in being  _ enjoyed. _ He could taste the musky complexity of Will’s pre-come, leaking from him in response, with each pull of his tongue.

“Deconstructing the image,” Will said. His fingers pressed against the base of Hannibal’s skull, encouraging him to speed up. “Shall I tell you? It makes you look human, still, a little. Not undressed,  _ indecent. _ As if someone – as if I could annihilate you, so easily. Keep you here, strip you bare and take what I want.

“But that doesn’t bother you. You know what you really are.”

Hannibal leant in, nuzzling into the sex-scented darkness of Will’s pubic curls, and smiled around his greedy mouthful.

Will rolled his hips forward. He didn’t let Hannibal catch his breath, or speak. His thighs trembled with tension under Hannibal’s questing fingers. 

Eventually his hand tangled in Hannibal’s hair, pulling him away, holding him still. He took hold of his own wet cock and made himself come – striping his satisfaction copiously across Hannibal’s chest and throat and face, making a ruin of shirt and skin alike. The last pearly-warm drops directly onto Hannibal’s waiting tongue, smeared over his open, desirous lips.

Will didn’t glance away from his handiwork. His pupils were wide and dark, raptor-like, the irises tight bands of silken blue. Hannibal had seen that look in his eyes, the moment before the knife came down. But this was not like murder. 

Or perhaps it was.

He was touching himself again – not leisurely by choice, now, but desperate, overcome. He clung to the moment and Will’s gaze and the dissipating heat of Will’s come on his skin, marking Hannibal as owned, made to be nothing and no one except that he was Will’s. The taste of it filled his mouth.

Will slid off the bed, half into his lap and half out of it, clumsily, still keeping his ruthless grip on Hannibal’s hair. He wrapped his other hand around Hannibal’s cock, pressed their bodies close, and bit down – hard and shameless – on Hannibal’s throat, in the spot he’d previously kissed.

And held Hannibal tremblingly still with his teeth, a predator with his prey, as pain and pleasure whiplashed through Hannibal’s body in orgasmic response.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> If you did not know what shirt stays are: happy Google Imaging, and welcome to today's lucky ten thousand!


End file.
